


footprints in the snow

by seijuurou



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drama & Romance, Emotional Constipation, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Light Angst, M/M, Memory Loss, Slice of Life, damn i love that tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-07-24 15:41:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16178129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seijuurou/pseuds/seijuurou
Summary: Hiraeth (n), the feeling of homesickness for a home you cannot return to, a home which maybe never was.Here's what Jaemin remembers, but Renjun may never will.





	1. Chapter 1

.  
.  
.

It’s a quiet promise, no pinky swears or written seals. They were diving headfirst into the graduation date, and Jaemin’s head is on wires. They’re staying on their favorite spot on the rooftop of Renjun's place, the sun breathing heat into afternoon air. The white uniform shirt feels tight and hot against his skin, but nothing can beat the burn in his heart when Renjun turns back and their eyes meet right then. 

“If we both get in, let’s go on a date together.”

The words fly out before he can close his mouth, but Jaemin didn’t get the chance to feel stupid about it when Renjun just snorts and punches him in the arm. The clock is still ticking loudly in his head, and just when Jaemin thinks the moment has passed, a warm hand slips into his. 

“ _If _you can get in, you fool.”__

____

It’s not even a yes, but when they step past the school’s gate and Renjun tiptoes up to kiss him in front of the door of his house, Jaemin thinks he can chalk it up as a promise – one that he certainly wouldn't miss for the world.

.  
.  
.

The words on the letter pass by in a blur, but Jaemin didn’t have to reread it again. The shinning pride on his parents’ faces are more than enough for him to take. He replies in a tight-lipped smile, and leaves upstairs for his bedroom, sliding down against the door and wrapping his knees around himself.

The phone in his pants buzzes quietly, and he whips it out to see a text from Chenle.

“He made it. He got in.”

Another text pops up from the boy, asking of his result, but his stomach feels tight and his eyes are a watery mess. He crumples the university acceptance letter in his grip before chucking the phone on his bed. 

The promise is still there, stinging on his lips. Jaemin thinks he’s going to be sick.

.  
.  
.

It was at 3:17AM on a Friday when Renjun finally woke up from his coma – 2 months after a drunk driver rammed into him at a crosswalk and just three weeks before the first semester of Korea National Univeristy of Arts begins. Jaemin remembers how he felt bolting to the hospital, how the wind slapped against his face and the chilly air crawled through his thin flannel shirt like cold wry hands. He shoved his way into the patient’s room, hair disheveled and clothes a wrinkled mess. The Chinese family looked at him like he’s just grown another head, but Jaemin’s eyes only narrowed down to one person right then.

He steps forward, just when Chenle’s arm shoots out and grabs at his wrist.

“Hyung…”

“Please, Chenle,” he whispers, voice breathless and he just _knows _it’s not because of the run. “I – I have to see for myself.”__

____

It only takes three steps for the boy to be in his view again. Renjun’s a frightful mess in the bed. His hair sticks out from every direction and band-aids are plastered all over his forehead and cheeks. He sits, swaddled in a hospital gown too big for his size and the clear, dark eyes Jaemin used to see are nowhere to be found. He’s staring at the IV tube stuck to his hand like it’s the weirdest thing he’s ever seen in his life, and it has to take Jaemin swallowing his heart back into his throat and coughing for the Chinese boy to look up.

“Injun…?”

He almost would have thought he said it in a whisper, too small for the other to hear. But when Renjun slowly looks up, dark crescents rimming dazed eyes and skin pale like frosted glass, the answer was clear.

.  
.  
.

“It just takes time.”

Jeno tells him, talking through a mouthful of hanwoo. Jaemin makes a face, but it’s the latter’s treat today (“consolation Korean barbeque, c’mon”) so he lets it slide. He silently dips a piece of lettuce into the sauce bowl and eats it whole, nodding at the guy.

“Well yeah duh,” Donghyuck rolls his eyes. “But we don’t know how long…Could be a few months, could be years, could be nev – Owwww…”

“I think,” Mark sighs, ignoring the glare from the younger boy next to him, “that we should just be patient. The fact that he woke up is a miracle itself already. Did they check him out yet?”

“Tomorrow,” Jisung nods, staring down at his phone screen. “Chenle says his parents want him out and home as soon as possible. _Of course. _”__

____

There’s a bitter edge to the youngest’ words that they all know too well. Jaemin can only gulp down on his food and tackle his water cup in silence. Renjun rarely talked about his family, but Jaemin could always remember the only child’s inheritance, the lonely days in boarding schools and the chilling anger in the Chinese’ words when he told him about his home in Jilin once. 

“I…I think we need to worry about K-Arts more.”

He starts, feeling the words sinking down to his stomach. “The semester’s starting in less than a month.”

And it’s not just a promise between two of them. After all the blood and sweat and tears they poured out and finally, all freshman boys of Korea National University of Arts in a month, and yet somehow the emptiness never feels clearer then. 

“Well, worst case scenario, at least he won’t remember all the dumb shit we’ve done that he used to blackmail us with.”

Donghyuck shrugs awkwardly in his seat, yelping when someone kicks him in the ankle under the table. Jaemin wishes he could laugh, but the words feel sick to his stomach. 

“There’s still a chance."

Jisung mumbles, looking down at his rice bowl. And Jaemin excuses himself into the bathroom, hands sweaty and eyes wet with unshed tears.

.  
.  
.

There _is _a chance.__

____

____

It’s a week after the hospital incident when he finally meets Renjun again. Jeno’s still absolutely baffled at the text when Chenle sent it to the group chat, but when they reach Cong café, where they used to often hang out at after class, Renjun is really sitting there, still awfully skinny and frail-looking in a loose blue sweater, although he’s managed to tame down his hair and smooth it over, bleached blond strands falling into his slit, curious eyes as he takes in the surroundings. The entire scene feels so unnaturally real Donghyuck has to nudge him by the elbow to move forward.

“I – ” 

Renjun starts, hands curling tight around his cup. It’s the first time Jaemin’s heard his voice since the graduation day, and he has to swallow back a lump in his throat. He sounds exactly the same, and yet everything else feels so different.

“Chenle says we’re friends,” he continues, sneaking a glance at the other Chinese for confirmation. He turns back to them when the green-haired boy nods. “Close friends – ”

“– and I think I remember too.” 

His dark eyes are wide and determined when he looks at all their faces, as if tracing back all the memories. “Mark-hyung, Jisung, Donghyuck, Jeno,” he whispers. Jaemin sucks in a breath when they finally reach him, heart thudding loudly in his ribcage. 

“Jaemin. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you at the hospital.”

Even with the sunlight passing through the window, Renjun looks like a paper-version of himself, paler and almost translucent. His eyes are dark and sincere when they stare at him, and it hits Jaemin like a brick. The only day that mattered the most is left forgotten in Renjun's mind. He’s being sorry for all the wrong things and Jaemin wants to throw up. He doesn’t care that Renjun didn’t recognize him at the hospital, he doesn’t care that he’s apologizing for it. 

There’s a need, a longing puncturing in his heart and bursting in his chest like a wild storm. He wants to talk about that graduation day, he wants to walk home with his hand enveloped in that familiar warmth, wants to feel their lips pressed together in that chaste, hopeful kiss again.

He wants, he wants to – 

“It’s alright,” Jaemin says, and smiles, heart in his throat. “I’m glad you remembered.”

“How could I forget?”

_I don't know _, Jaemin wants to say. But then Renjun smiles. The lines at his eyes crinkle and his lips curve up so beautifully Jaemin loses his breath all over again. The words weave through his chest and crawl up his throat in painful, desperate waves, but he pushes them down and grins back, holding his coffee cup tight.__

____

.  
.  
.

“It’s an ultimatum,” Chenle tells them later that day. “He had a huge fight with his parents when they left the hospital. My aunt is giving him a semester here.”

It wasn’t like he didn’t see this coming, but the thought of it turning real didn’t sting much less either. 

“Unless?” he whispers.

The younger boy doesn’t answer for a moment, but then he turns to him, a sad smile playing at his lips that makes Jaemin hold his breath in dread. 

“Unless he can find a reason good enough to stay.”  
.  
.  
.

Donghyuck’s the first one to offer it to the group, calling it an operation. ‘Make Renjun fall in love with Jaemin again in 4 months.’

Mark kicks him out of the group chat until the first week of the semester, and Jaemin's eternally grateful for it. 

 

(tbc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is what happens when u watch the vow and the 8-year engagement on the same day.  
> i wrote this in 3 hours. tell me if i should spend more time and continue ya
> 
> drop by and say hi on twitter |ʘ‿ʘ)╯ @jaemsei


	2. Chapter 2

.  
.  
.

“Here you go.”

“Ah, thank you.”

Renjun sighs, taking the phone from the sales’ person gratefully. The brand new, pristine iPhone XS sits heavily in his palm, and he sneaks a quick glance at his mom before turning to the girl again.

“Is there any way to salvage it? Whatever that’s left?”

“Ah, the phone’s quite smashed from the hit, sir,” she smiles ruefully. “We’ll try to recover as much as we can. But most of your photos and social accounts are pretty intact I believe.”

It’s not those that he worries about. Something about changing to new iPhones always makes a lot of his text messages disappear. Renjun knows it’s only been two months, but the look on that boy’s face when he saw him in the hospital room –

“If you can, please.”

He tells the girl, a hint of desperation in his tone that makes the words clog at his throat, but he ignores it. There’s still a bandage on the left side of his cheek, and he thinks he must look pretty shitty, because the girl blinks at him in surprise before nodding again.

“Of course. I’ll inform you as soon as we get it.”

“Renjun? Honey?”

The sound of heels clinking near makes him suppress a flinch. Giving the girl one last smile and muttering a small “thank you”, he turns away to meet at his mom’s eyes again, boring holes into his head.

“Let’s go home, dear.”

He nods, gripping the iPhone tight in his hand, and trails behind her all the way to their car.  
.  
.  
.

He lied.

He shouldn’t have, but he did. The truth is that when he opens his eyes to white ceiling and tubes stuck to his veins, he remembers nothing but his parents and his cousin and days longing alone in their house in Jilin. He doesn’t understand why the doctor was speaking to his parents in Korean, why Chenle looks so wrung out, why that wild, disheveled boy shoves his way in here and looks at him like anything he says then would matter the world.

He doesn’t understand, but he has to. Something happened – something that made him – Jaemin look like the entire world’s crashed upon him and Renjun’s the only one that knows how to fix it.

The ride home is in complete and utter silence. Renjun remembers this quietness, the tense chill in the air when he sits with his mom – eyeliner perfectly curved and lips forever a dark shade of red. He wonders if that’s why he moved here to study in Seoul so impulsively, if he’s finally had enough. It would make sense. It would make a lot of sense, actually.

“You should rest, honey. That Apple store clerk was taking forever to swipe my card.”

His mom says, a hand on his back when they reach their house. He shoves the iPhone in his pants’ pockets and nods softly.

“Renjun?”

“Yes?”

“I –,” she starts, “well, your dad and I, we’d like to talk to you tonight at dinner. It’s something important.”

 _It’s always something important_ , he thinks bitterly, shoving his sneakers to the shoes shelve. “Of course, mom.”

She says something more, something a lot like _rest up, honey_ and _I love you_ , but Renjun’s already on his way to the stairs. He closes the door tightly and chucks the new phone in his bed.

There’s a photo on his desk, stuck in a wooden Moomin frame. He’s in the middle of six other boys, swathed by their larger builds and their smiles bigger than life under the sunlight. Chenle has his arm swung around a taller boy next to him, and between all of them, it’s the boy he saw at the hospital, sitting on his right and a beautiful, sincere smile on his lips.

Jaemin, he thinks sadly, almost desperately. He wishes he could feel something, anything, just the tiniest hint of familiarity looking at them like this. But he doesn’t. It feels like his brain’s been stuck in a blender and remolded and shoved back into his head. There’s scars on his skin and holes in his memories he’s not sure if he will ever get back.

He turns to the mirror hung on the door, and frowns at the reflection. Somehow between the high school years he forgot he’s managed to bleach his whole head. The dark, smooth mop of hair is replaced with dirty blond strands, falling down to his brows and casting shadows over his tired eyes.

There’s a letter on his desk, prime and pristine with a seal from Korea National University of Arts. Renjun’s completely baffled when he opens and reads through it. He’s always enjoyed singing since he was a little kid, but to actually push forward with it instead of passing it on as a hobby –

Something’s changed in him. In his stay here in Seoul. In his time with those boys. In his memory with Jaemin.

Pushing his hair out of his face, he places the letter back on the desk, next to the photo frame. The cut on his cheek stings softly under the bandage, and his chest feels so tight he thinks it might puncture out of his ribcage. Walking to his bed and picking up his phone, Renjun swipes the screen open and logs back in all his social accounts.

There’s a piece of him lost somewhere around here, and he’s determined to find out what.  
.  
.  
.

“I want to stay here.”

He says, at the dinner. The grilled salmon is threatening to crawl back up his throat in pieces but he forcefully pushes it down, keeping himself straight and staring right back at his parents’ eyes.

“We haven’t even said anything, honey.”

His mom finally says, a tight smile on her lips, but he cuts her off.

“I can guess what. But I checked,” he mutters. “I got accepted and the semester’s starting in a week. And I’m going.”

“There’s so many good music schools in China too,” his mom huffs disdainfully. “You can go study in Beijing. We’ll prepare you a nice place to stay, and you’ll get to be at home…”

“I _left_ home to come here,” he says tightly. “For three years. And I don’t know why or how, but I’ve made friends,” _Jaemin,_ "People who care about me here too.”

The glass clinks loudly when his dad places it back on the table. It’s red wine, his favorite. They’re staying in Seoul but it still feels like they carried the entire China here. It’s so blatantly written all over their faces, their looks at everything around them. Distinctly, he wonders if they’d ever come here in the first place if he’s never gotten into that accident.

“So what would you prefer then, son?”

His dad says, voice low and Renjun knows it’s his cue to shut up and apologize. But it’s an opening, and he gravely takes it.

“Give me a semester,” he says, “A-and if I can’t find what I need here, I’ll come home.” _Jilin _.__

__For a moment, the silence is deafening. His heart is thudding in his ribcage like a bursting dam, but he doesn’t balk, and keeps his stare stubbornly to the spot between his father’s eyes._ _

__“Alright,” Mr. Huang finally says, and sighs._ _

__“What?” his mom gasps, whipping her head back to her husband. “Our son was _hit_ and got into a coma and you’re still letting him stay in this hellhole?”_ _

__“It’s his choice,” his dad shrugs, sipping on his wine and rightfully ignoring the burning glare from his wife. “And no matter what happens, he’ll live with it. – ”  
__

__“Won’t you, son?”_ _

__His mom pushes out the chair and leaves the room, but dad’s stare never wavers. Renjun can only nod a quiet promise, and they finish the dinner in usual silence._ _

___._  
.  
. 

__Jaemin tries his hardest to not share any classes with Renjun. It’s tiring looking at the boy and missing a piece of himself, overall, just bad for his health. The task isn’t supposed to be hard, he’s in Dance, and Renjun’s hanging at the Music Department, barely any courses in common with each other. But they’re all freshmen, and like fate would have it, the school puts them in the same English class – as one of the requirements for General Education._ _

__It’s the third period when Jaemin finally sees Renjun again. It’s only been a week since the café, but it seems like all the wounds on his face have finally healed up. There’s only a bandage peeking out from the collar of his black sweater, and Jaemin tries to focus on that when the Chinese turns around and gives him and Jeno a welcoming smile._ _

__“Hi,”_ _

__“What’s up, Renjun?” Jeno replies pleasantly, his eyes crinkling. “You look better.”_ _

__“Do I?” Renjun chuckles, ruffling at his hair in embarrassment. “Still feel like shit though.”_ _

__“That’s because what happened was shit,” Donghyuck announces as he pops up from behind them, Mark at his side. “It’s all fine, buddy.”_ _

__“Thanks…?” Renjun blinks, staring up at him. There’s a tiny scar at the corner of his left eye now, and Jaemin stares at it in curiosity. It somehow goes perfectly well with the slit of his eyes and he wonders why he keeps bringing up Renjun in his mind when he can barely look at the guy in the eye._ _

__“Uh huh,” Donghyuck grins happily, slumping down on the chair behind them. “So, since this is English and I’m not as good at this like I am with everything else, I’m gonna need Mark on this side and Jeno on this other side.”_ _

__“Why me?”_ _

__Jeno protests, but sits down on the smaller boy’s side nonetheless, which leaves Jaemin standing there in complete confusion until he realizes Donghyuck’s still on that plan._ _

__“Because you take damn good notes,”_ _

__Donghyuck pats the boy on the back, before sneaking a glance up at Jaemin with a tiny smile. “C’mon Nana, class is starting soon.”  
__

__Nana is halfway between bolting out of the room and putting an arm around Donghyuck’s neck. He stares at the open seat right to Renjun’s in wary, but wordlessly slips in anyways when the Professor walks in and the lesson starts._ _

__Time flies by in the lull of talking and pens scribbling through paper. Jaemin stubbornly keeps his head forward. Sometimes the long sleeve of Renjun’s sweater grazes his bare arm in movement but he doesn’t shy away, and he thinks it’s these moments that strike the hardest. Renjun, small and bleached hair in his oversized sweater, sitting next to him yet the distance never feels farther._ _

__“Hey,”_ _

__The whisper catches him off-guard, and he turns to see Renjun taking a peek at his notebook._ _

__“Someone’s blocking the board. What’s this?”_ _

__The Chinese mumbles, pointing at the word on his note with his pen._ _

__“Cognizance,” he replies, the word stings on his tongue. “You know what it means?”_ _

__“Not really,” the smaller shakes his head, staring up at him. There’s the scar again, but Jaemin’s finally looking at him in the eye this time._ _

__“You do?”_ _

__“Yeah.”_ _

__“What does it mean?”_ _

__“Remembrance.”_ _

He whispers, just in time for the bell to ring, shielding away the painful thumps against his chest.  
.  
.  
. 

__“Geez, finally,”_ _

__Chenle sighs loudly, gulping down a huge sip from his water bottle. The school bell’s buzzing loudly from behind as they leave the campus._ _

__The chill of the Korean autumn is light and heady in the air, and Jaemin tries to hide a shiver by walking a little bit behind the Chinese cousins, next to a pair of bickering Donghyuck and Mark._ _

__“Stop overreacting,” Renjun frowns under his cap. “It wasn’t even that long.”_ _

__“Easy for you to say, you nerd,” Chenle rolls his eyes, ducking when the other shoots out his hand to make for a grab. “Anyways, gotta go.”_ _

__“Go where?” Jeno asks, notebooks in hands._ _

__“To the arcade.”_ _

__The boy shouts back, as he makes for a run to the Dance Department at their right. “Jisung owes me a win. And I’m not coming home until I get my revenge!!”_ _

__“Ya,” Renjun shouts after him, sighing fruitlessly when the boy’s shadow’s already starting to fade._ _

__“Welp, we’d better get going too,”_ _

__Donghyuck chirps happily, an arm swung around Mark’s neck, which the latter shrugs helplessly at. “Gotta make it in time for the metro.”_ _

__“We’re not hanging out today?” Jeno frowns, clumsily trying to shove his notebooks in his bagpack and catching up with their steps at the same time._ _

__“There’s first period tomorrow too,” Mark chides at them. “Better go home and rest up early. We have dance at 9 in the morning.”_ _

__“Absolute torture,” Donghyuck agrees, and claps happily as they reach the gate. “See you boys, and Injunnie. Rest well~”_ _

__“Bye,”_ _

Renjun smiles back, hands nervous at his sides as they watch the two boys make way to the station. Jaemin can only look at him, a frown on his forehead when he’s finally suddenly reminded of their usual way back home, and thinks to himself – _fuck._  
.  
.  
. 

__“Alright, this is my way,” Jeno announces, tilting at the road on their left. “Be careful okay? I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”_ _

__“See you,”_ _

__Renjun waves, a smile in his eyes while Jaemin’s sure his are just screaming for help. The taller guy simply chuckles at them before waving back and going on his way. Jaemin glares at his back in utter betrayal._ _

__“I didn’t remember we live on the same street.”_ _

__Renjun says with a soft chuckle, after a while of them walking, shoulder grazing at the wall. He protests when Jaemin pushes him to go inside, but Jaemin thinks he must have had some shit look on his face, because the boy easily complies after looking up at him._ _

__“Well, there's lots of things you need to remember.”_ _

__He replies, a bitter edge at his words that he didn’t manage to hide in time. His heart makes a skip, but the other boy doesn’t seem to notice as they walk down their way. The nostalgia burns in his chest so deep he thinks he might choke. His hand aches at the warmth hovering near, but he shoves it in his pants’ pocket instead, teeth biting at the inside of his cheek in silent frustration._ _

__It doesn’t take long for them to reach Renjun’s place. His apartment is on the second floor of the building of a flower shop, and the owner, Mrs. Shin never hesitates to wave them a hello when Jaemin passes by. The shop is closed today, and Jaemin takes his time sneaking a look up Renjun’s window, where the light is bright. His parents must still be here, and the thought lies like stone in his chest._ _

__“Jaemin-ah,”_ _

__Jaemin blinks, and looks down at the boy next to him. He wonders if Renjun knows only he used to call him like that, in that tone, a habit so ingrained he does it without thinking, or knowing of its meaning. All the images of that day flash through his mind like a credit roll, of Renjun, standing so close Jaemin can see the dripping sunlight glinting off his slanted eyes, dark and so gentle with mirth._ _

__“Yeah?”_ _

__He says, and swallows. Heart so swollen he thinks it might fly and ring out of his chest._ _

__“I – I’m sorry for this,” Renjun murmurs, “I really don’t know what happened and it’s okay if you don’t tell me,”_ _

__He stops, and sucks in a breath. The doctor said he took the hardest hit in his lung and he knows it’s showing, tight and wrung out in his chest. His eyes are wet and stinging with unshed tears, but he plows on, gaze never leaving the boy in front of him._ _

__"But I hope you know that I don't want to hurt you, ever."_ _

___'I know'_ _, Jaemin wants to say, the syllables burn at his tongue. But it's not enough. That warmth in his palm and that kiss are taken away the day he bled down that crosswalk, their promise forever gone with the wind. So when Renjun steps closer and engulfs him in a small embrace, shy and uncertain, it takes a moment before Jaemin can return it, just as stiff and detached._ _ _

__

__

__The words weave through his chest like an overflowing sink, and he thinks this must be what it feels like - to have your heart stolen in time forgotten._ _

__(tbc)_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for checking this out :D
> 
> tt @godnjm


	3. Chapter 3

.  
.  
.

Jaemin’s plan of not sharing classes with his sad, desperate crush falls into dust when again, General Ed puts them in the same Art class together. And in the midst of Mark, Jeno and Donghyuck being in one section, Chenle and Jisung are in another section, Renjun has to oh so well conveniently fall into his section, second period of Tuesday.

“It is so _fated_ ,” Donghyuck sighs dreamily next to him, out of breath from his dance class, which makes the sound coming out of his mouth even more grating. “It’s God telling you something Nana.”

Jaemin gives his friend a look, ready to tell him to tell God exactly where to shove it, when he spots Renjun coming towards them from the opposite way, notebook and a paint brush in hand.

“Hey guys,”

“Renjunnie~” Donghyuck coos, grinning. Ever since the Chinese came back he’s been so touchy and sweet towards the smaller boy Jaemin almost feels like gagging sometimes. “Going to art class?”

“Yeah,” Renjun replies, an easy smile on his lips that Jaemin certainly does _not_ stare at. “Just trying to find my classroom right now. This building is huge.”

“Awwww what d’you know? Jaemin is also on his way to art class right here. Are you guys in the same section?”

“I guess? 206?” Renjun looks up at him, and blinks when Jaemin only nods back stiffly. “Oh, great.”

“I gotta find my classroom too before I’m late again,” Donghyuck says, too cheerily to be _real_ cheerily. He quickly detaches himself from Jaemin’s side as he swivels to the opposite direction. “Good luck finding your room! I’ll see you guys later.”

 _Brat_ , Jaemin thinks, angrily, miserably. The notebook is heavy in his hand and he curses the life of every God out there to have put him in this spot. As if throwing his heart away to some piss poor drunk asshole and getting it flung around when Renjun came back to life wasn’t enough of a wreckage on his thinning health.

“He’s not in our art class?”

The Chinese boy says, a tiny frown between the lines on his forehead that Jaemin’s suddenly reminded of how small he actually is. If Renjun’s any closer his soft blond strands would be tickling at his nose right now and he angrily swipes the thought away, heart thudding loudly in his chest.

“Yeah, he’s with Jeno and Mark-hyung for Art.”

“How do you know we’re together for Art then?”

“It’s on our student learning website of the course,” he says, and swallows. “It says that we’re paired up as partners.”

.  
.  
.

Their first assignment is to draw fruit, with fake apple and peach and pear and bananas in a red marble bowl. The plastic makes the fruits look even faker and Jaemin scrunches his nose when his pencil sketch is done. The water colors they’re gonna use to paint this will just empathize the ugliness even more he’s sure of it.

“How’s it going?”

Renjun asks, poking his head out from his paper stand. Their seats are right next to each other but with all the art equipments they might as well be on different rows. Jaemin waves his pencil in dismissal, avoiding the other’s eyes.

“It’s alright. Just finished my sketch.”

“Me too,” the latter says. Jaemin watches him stare at his own work in contemplation. “I don’t know if it’s the plastic fruits or my drawing skills though, but it’s kinda ugly.”

Jaemin can only shake his head with a chuckle, turning back to his stand. If Renjun has remembered he would know he’s the best at drawing among all of them. That sometimes if classes are so boring he would doodle on Jaemin’s notebooks and later when Jaemin’s home he would open them and see tiny Moomins at the corners of his notes and they always make his heart beat a little stronger in his chest. Everytime. 

He hasn’t touched those pages since months ago. He wonders if he ever will again.

“Okay class, just one more thing before I send you off,” Mrs. Lee announces, a tiny middle-aged woman in glasses and hair tied in a bun. If she wasn’t teaching Art Jaemin would have definitely mistaken her for the school’s librarian.

“I just wanna go through our final project real quick. I want you all to draw something that is close to your hearts. Something that inspires you, motivates you, or just simply something you love. It can be anything you want, as long as there’s a meaning in the drawing.”

“Can it be someone?”

One of the students shouts from the back, and Mrs. Lee blinks at them before nodding with a bright grin. 

“Of course, of course. My bad. A portrait is even much more wonderful. I’m telling you now so you kids can take your time alright? It’s the most important assignment of the class so be prepared, and surprise me. I’ll see you all next class.”

.  
.  
.

“So what are you doing now?”

“Now?” Jaemin mutters, slinging his bagpack over his shoulders. Unlike the guys, he doesn’t have anymore classes for today. “I’m free now so home I suppose.”

He looks down at the other curiously. “Something’s wrong?”

“Ah, no,” Renjun chuckles, bouncing a little after him as he tries to twist open his water bottle. “I’m free too. I just thought we’d usually hang out at Cong after class is over.”

They do. Back in high school, when all of them are out at the same time. Jaemin stares at the other boy. “You wanna hang out at Cong? Now?” 

Renjun stops in his tracks, water bottle halfway to his lips as he returns his gaze evenly. His eyes are dark and huge, like crystal orbs, glinting under the afternoon sunlight that bounces off against his blond hair. 

“Why not? You have anything else better to do?”

He says, and passes him a tiny smile before chucking down his water. Jaemin can only stare at the way his throat bobs at the sip and the soft curve of his lips. When Renjun grins at him and walks forward, it takes him a whole second before he can follow the boy.

For someone with amnesia, Renjun still sure knows how to drive him insane.

.  
.  
.

“So what would you draw?”

Renjun finally asks. They’re finally at the café, up on their highest floor and seated at the couch right next to the balcony. It’s not that much of a chilly day for September, but Jaemin still has his americano made extra hot just in case. 

The blond is seated across from him, his sketch book leaning at the edge of their table and his warm cup of jasmine tea next to his mass of eraser and pencils splayed around. 

“For the final art assignment?” he replies, shrugging. “I don’t know. What would you draw?”

“I’m asking you first.”

“You can’t take inspiration from other people’s inspirations,” he points out, stirring at his coffee. “That’s cheating.”

“No, it’s taking in suggestions.”

“Which, if the ideas are identical, is cheating.”

Jaemin finally says, leaning back on his seat. A gush of wind blows by that makes him reach at his cup for warmth. Renjun’s looking at him, brows knitted together as if pondering over what he’s just said. He suddenly remembers, once when Renjun helped out a kid to open the door because she was too short to reach it, and when she flashed him a smile in thanks she’s called Renjun ‘unnie’. Jaemin almost fell off the stairs laughing, Renjun snarling at him and pinching his arm in complete humiliation, but when he looked up and saw the burning blush across Renjun’s cheeks, the way his skin flushed down to his neck and his dark hair fell into his eyes, he could completely understand why people would mistake Renjun for a girl.

Things hadn’t changed as much, at least not this. Not the way Renjun’s bangs flop over his eyes, the wry bone jutting out below his neck, the soft curve of his mouth when he’s trying to think. His heart takes a dive in a spiral all over again, and Jaemin quickly darts his eyes away, hands reaching for his bagpack.

“Since we’re already here,” he answers the other’s curious gaze, pulling out his textbook. “I might as well make the best out of it. Lord knows I won’t be touching these things at home.”

Renjun smiles at that, before nodding and turning back to his sketchbook again. They flitter by the time in peaceful silence, Jaemin sneaking peeks at Renjun when he thinks he doesn’t notice, but he does, their eyes catching the other mid-glance sometimes. He looks away as soon as they do, but he can tell Renjun doesn’t. His gaze lingers until it burns down to the back of Jaemin’s neck, and _that_ – he thinks, is so much worse.

.  
.  
.

 _Hiraeth_ (n), his book reads, _the feeling of homesickness for a home you cannot return to, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, yearning or grief for the lost places of your past._

Jaemin stops scribbling at his notes, and stares at the opened page. His speaker is thrumming on the desk, urban hip hop pounding in his ears, but nothing is as loud as the sunlight dripping down Renjun’s hair when he’s drawing. 

The word dances in front of his eyes, and he closes them, breaths tight and short in his chest. 

.  
.  
.

“Maybe you should take up drawing honey,” his mom’s told him, as they were leaving the hospital. The new navy MSKN2ND hoodie she bought him is cold against his skin. “It helps with memory.”

Renjun didn’t think much of it, but when he comes home to his room later that night and flips open his sketchbook, soft pencil marks of a pink-haired boy reading a book, he thinks he might actually listen for once after all. 

(tbc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fixed the summary a bit bc this is the best chap so far, i think. can u catch all the references tho ;)
> 
> thanks for all the kudos and comments <3
> 
> tt @godnjm


	4. Chapter 4

.  
.  
.

“Imagine. Lee Haechan – one of the greatest male vocals of K-pop.”

“Who’s Haechan?”

Mark says, words gargled as he gulps down his water. Donghyuck simply slumps down right next to him, and punches the older in the arm, glaring half-heartedly.

“My stage name. I told you this before.”

“You told me lots of stuff before. Who the hell can remember all of it?”

“Yeah, and we’ve barely even started at this school.”

Jisung says around a mouthful of food, which is _cute_ , Jaemin wants to pinch his cheeks, but he’s too busy not burning his face off because Renjun is seated right next to him, their forearms lightly brushing each other as the other quietly eats and watches their friends goofing off together.

He doesn’t think about how Renjun just plops down right next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn’t done this a million times before when they were still in high school. He tries not to.

“Uhmm hyung, can we talk about more important stuff please?” Chenle calls, swiping his phone open and showing them the screen. “It’s finally Wednesday! Let’s go bowling after class. There’s a student discount today.” 

“Says the guy holding the brand new XS.”

Jeno mocks half-heartedly, pointing his chopsticks at the younger boy. It’s been a week since the two Chinese cousins got their new Apple phones, and they’re still not over giving them shit for it.

“Hey now,”

Renjun butts in, waving his hand in the air in protest. There’s another loose sweater on him today, and Jaemin tries not to look at his too long sleeves and the slim fingers curling around them. He fails half of the time.

“You don’t count Lonjin-ah,” Donghyuck pats him on the shoulder. “Your phone was smashed. Chenle’s just an extra dramatic ass and he needs to admit it.”

“If I admit it will you guys go then?” 

“I’d go if Mark goes.”

“How is it relevant to me?”

“I’ll go,” Jeno shrugs, ignoring the other two boys bickering right next to him. “Rather bowling than working out at the smelly gym here anyways.”

“I’ll go just so I can beat you like I did at the arcade.”

“We aren’t through with that yet,” Chenle grimaces, but turns to him anyways. “Jaemin-hyung? Pleeease?”

“Of course I’ll go,” Jaemin smiles gently at him. He can _feel_ Renjun’s stare at the back of his head, and he’s pretty sure his stomach is churning. He drops his chopsticks and finishes his water in one big gulp. 

“Yesss! Renjun-hyung?”

“Depends.”

Renjun says, slowly. His dark gaze is gone from his nape, but Jaemin refuses to turn and check.

“Was I good at it?”

“Very much so.” Donghyuck nods, grinning.

“Okay, let’s do that after class then.”

The Chinese shrugs, finishing up his food. Jaemin doesn’t turn back. The first time they went bowling together two years ago Renjun almost dislocated his elbow holding up the ball and he had to drag the Chinese boy home with an arm around his waist and the other slung around his shoulders. Maybe Donghyuck was right. Some things are just better left forgotten after all.  
.  
.  
.

“I know I don’t remember stuff, but has a ball always been this heavy?”

Renjun says loudly, swinging back the bowling ball on the couch for support. They’ve only begun an hour ago and there’s already some tiny sweat beads near his temples. Jaemin looks away, only to find Donghyuck smirking at them from his spot. He chucks his towel at the boy, and watches in satisfaction as it smacks him square in the face. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Renjun blinks at him, and smiles. “I’m okay.”

“You look out of breath.” _Understatement of the month though_ , Jaemin thinks, watching the other’s face turning redder by the minute. 

“Here,” Donghyuck appears, holding a bottle of water out, which the Chinese accepts gratefully. He throws the towel back to Jaemin with a nasty grin. “Be careful, man. It’s almost your turn.”

“Already?” the Chinese blinks. “Huh, okay.”

“You know, you really don’t have to do this.”

Jaemin says, thin brows raising close to his hairline by the second. He stares at the ball drooping by the older’s hand in wary, the scene looking terrifyingly closer to that fateful day.

“We’re literally here just to mostly watch Chenle and Jisung eat shit trying to one up the other.”

“Nah,”

Renjun waves him off, stroking at his wrist in thought. 

“I wanna try too,” he adds, almost too soft to hear but Jaemin catches it anyways. He knows Renjun doesn’t mean just bowling anymore, and the thought sticks at his throat like gum.

“C’mon hyung, let’s even out the score.”

Chenle chirps in gleefully from afar. Renjun looks up from his trance, and catches Jaemin’s gaze looking at him. For a millisecond they just stare at each other, and Jaemin is _almost_ sure it’s something in Renjun’s eyes, something that makes his heart leap up his throat, but then he turns around, and the moment passes before he can register it.

“Ya Injun, are you good?”

Mark shouts from his seat, an obvious frown forming on his face. He probably remembers that day too, Jaemin realizes, because he also stands up, but Renjun cuts him off before the older can come to him.

“I’m fine hyung! Just stay there and watch me.”

“That’s such a lie.”

Jeno says next to him. And it’s true, because as Jaemin watches in high alert, Renjun’s bringing up his bowling ball and preparing for the strike, his hand trembles. The scene is so painfully familiar, and as soon as Jaemin gets to his feet to stop what he _knows_ is about to happen, Renjun slips with a yelp, and drops to his knees as the ball falls off his hand, knocking Jaemin’s heart out along with it.  
.  
.  
.

“It’s not funny,”

Renjun whines from his spot, there’s a bandage wrap around his wrist now, and Donghyuck’s kneeling in front of him, with everyone else scuttered around like a human circle dome, looking down at them.

“I feel bad, but it is funny as hell,” Donghyuck snickers up at him, wrapping another bandage around the Chinese’ ankle.  


“You knew this would happen.”

Renjun states, and rolls his eyes. His face is a little less red now, but Jaemin can still tell he’s strained. There’s too many bandages on Renjun these days, he wonders when they’ll be over, if they ever will. 

“Nah, we thought you’d give up after your first try holding up the ball, but you played with us for almost two hours,” Jeno grins, clasping the other’s shoulder happily. “Major improvement seriously.”

“Yeeeeeaah…Let’s not do that again, hyung.”

Jisung shakes his head, the only one that doesn’t need to stand on his tiptoes to watch Donghyuck bandage up the Chinese boy. Jaemin fears for his own height sometimes looking at their youngest.

“All done.”

Donghyuck announces, gathering the leftover wraps as he stands up. “Should we call your parents to pick you up?”

Renjun pales at the latter. “Please don’t. Mom is gonna murder me in my sleep.”

They certainly don’t disagree at that. But Jaemin’s thinking of something else, something like two years ago, with his arm snug around Renjun’s tiny frame and their stupid jokes walking down the street of Seoul at 10 in the night. Everything looks too much of that past now, and the image settles in his stomach like sour grapes.

“Let’s just go home.”

Mark tells them, and Jaemin turns away before his stinging eyes can show up again.  
.  
.  
.

“Am I heavy?”

“For the last time Injun, no.”

Jaemin sighs, it’s the fifth time for the past five minutes, and Renjun still feels as light as a feather against his back. So maybe it’s a bit different than that memory this time, but he’s pretty sure his raging heartbeats are still all the same.

“Huh, have you done this before? You make it look so easy.”

It would be a lot – lot easier if he can’t feel those soft puffs of breaths at the nape of his neck, but Renjun’s better off not knowing that. 

“To kids, yeah.” He finally replies. “Not clumsy boys that slip while trying to play bowling.”

“Ya,” but then, a whisper. “D – did I really slip and fall before? Like this?”

“No, you just hurt your arm a little. It’s worse this time.”

“And you carried me home? Like this too?”

“No.” 

He says, and thinks of an arm across his shoulder and raspy, light laughter like sandpaper under the charred street lights of Seoul. 

“I just helped you walk home.”

It’s silence again, and Jaemin tries not to get it into his head anymore. Not when Renjun’s small hands are safely wrapped around his neck, when he’s holding the older boy up by the knees, and the burning warmth between them ripples something sharp through his chest like a misplaced bone.

“Well,” Renjun eventually says, hot breath tickling at the ends of his hair. “I think it’s better this time.”

And he places his head against his neck. Jaemin’s throat hitches, but when he tries to look back and sees nothing but the white fabric covering Renjun’s shoulder and the tops of his blond hair, he turns away again. 

He can feel it – the soft vibration of Renjun’s breathing against the base of his neck, right above the top rung of his spine, and if Jaemin’s hands tighten around his legs everytime his lips brush against his hair, Renjun never says anything about it.

(tbc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no haechannie we don't need to imagine it's already a fact.  
> the piggyback wasn't in my initial plan but here we are, oh well.
> 
> thanks for all the kudos and comments <3
> 
> tt @godnjm


	5. Chapter 5

.  
.  
.  
.  
On Thursday, Renjun shares his singing class with Donghyuck, who wholeheartedly hollers at him from down the hall, ignoring the annoyed stares and huffs he’s receiving, and walks with him to their class with a running mouth. Renjun wishes he remembered how to response to such advances, but the other boy seems to be perfectly content with Renjun’s smiley nods and occasional oh’s ah’s, so he doesn’t try.

The music comes to him naturally, like a habit, one so used it’s hard to even realize you’re doing it. When the melody starts he closes his eyes and lets his voice trail after the sound, trying to hit every note with close precision like how they’re taught. He can feel the vibration at his adam’s apple, hot and ready from his warm up, and it surges a wave of excitement through his chest. If this is what it feels like everytime, he can definitely see how he would try to pursue singing than an actual academic major, maybe just a little.

“That was excellent,” Mrs. Park, their voice coach, beams at him. “You got skills, Lonjin-ah. Just needs shaping up. Try to hit the Do at little lower next time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Park blinks at him, before nodding with a smile as she flips through another page of the notebook and calls for Donghyuck’s name. Renjun takes that as his cue to retreat, and occupies the bench at the nearby window, note sheet in hand.

Their classroom here looks out the school’s basketball court at the southwest campus, and Renjun’s eyes widen when he recognizes a few familiar figures on the orange field. Chenle’s bright green hair is flopping around as he jumps all over the place, trying to block the looming figure of Jisung as he’s tracing the ball and heading straight to the hoop, while Jeno is flailing his hands around a running Jaemin as Mark loudly yells at them from afar.

They’re sweating bullets, but their smiles never fade, looking so big and bright Renjun couldn’t help his mouth curving up as he watches from above. He wonders if he has ever been down there, with them, and suddenly there’s something inside of him, that aches and hurts. 

The holes in his mind seem so small against this emptiness, and he forcefully stares down at his note again, clutching the paper so tight the edges crumple in folds.  
.  
.  
.

“If I hit the _Do_ any ‘lower’, I’ll be mute.”

Donghyuck says, for the tenth time since they left the classroom, or maybe the fifth, Renjun’s not sure. The boy repeats his complaints until it’s impossible to listen to anymore, and he finds that he doesn’t even mind. Donghyuck has this cheery way of talking it’s so easy to fall into the lull of his soft voice, not that Renjun will ever admit it out loud.

“Like did she even listen to me singing? This is as low as you’re gonna get Prof. You can probably hit it better only because your voice’ a tiny bit lower than mine, but still – Hey,” 

Donghyuck frowns, hand halfway on reaching out to his friend’s arm until he notices Renjun’s turning the other way. He trails after the boy’s eyes, and feels his heart sink.

“Oh,” Renjun blinks, seemingly out of his trance as he whips back to him, an awkward smile on his lips. “I’m sorry. You were saying?”

“You were pretty good at it, you know,” Donghyuck says instead, and smiles down at him. The corners of his eyes aren’t as lifted up as they usually are anymore, and Renjun feels his smile fade out in realization.

“Honest this time, I swear.” Donghyuck grins, and juts his chin to the window Renjun was staring at. “We’d often drag each other to the basketball court after school and challenge the seniors. Ate a lot of shit too, but it was fun, and we beat them lots of times.”

 _That sounds like fun_ , Renjun wants to say, but the words are clogged in his throat and his heart is stuck in his chest, so tight and swollen he thinks it might break his ribcage. It would have been fun, and he knew – _knows_ he would have treasured that memory forever if this _stupid_ thing just didn’t happen.

“You do know we were only the happiest when you woke up right?”

“Huh?”

Renjun looks up at the boy, and feels his breath snap short.

“You can’t just dwell on past memories,” Donghyuck says, and looks down at their friends. 

“ when you can make new ones all over again.”

He finally tells him, softly brushing his elbow, in reassurance, in comfort, Renjun’s not sure, but he’s grateful for it either way. When Donghyuck turns back to him and gives the brightest grin Renjun’s ever seen, he replies all the same, the knots in his chest loosening in tiny bits of hope.  
.  
.  
.

“You know, that wasn’t the only thing you were good at.”

“Really now?”

Renjun mutters, as he picks up his tea bottle from the metal tray. They’re finally in front of the vending machine, people are passing by in blurs, but nothing is as clear as the look in Donghyuck’s eyes when they stare back into his.

“Yep.” The boy nods, and grins down at him, slinging his bagpack over one shoulder.

“The music pieces you and Jaemin made were pretty damn good too.”  
.  
.  
.

“How was school honey?”

“Huh?”

Renjun looks up from where he’s setting out the plates. It takes a moment for the question to sink in, and he nods to the back of his mom.  
“It was alright mom, as usual.”

It’s not enough, he supposes, because she glances back at him before turning to the pan again.

“Are you still hanging out with your friends? The ones from high school? You told me they all got in didn’t they?”

“Yes mom. I share classes with them so we see each other often.”

She finally turns back this time, pan in hand and Renjun hurriedly puts the plate in front of her.

There’s a small crease between her eyebrows, and Renjun stares at it in curiosity and dread. It’s barely anything good when mom has to think before she says something to him.

“And that boy? Jae – Min?” she says, spells out each syllable slowly, as if tasting the name on her tongue. “I hope you two are okay. He looked pretty troubled when he left the hospital that day.”

Renjun startles, almost dropping his chopsticks as he fully whips his head up to stare at her.

“You knew him mom?”

She gives him a look, rolling her eyes. She must have stayed home today instead of going with Dad, Renjun suddenly realizes, staring at the messy bun on her head and her old loose T-shirt she’d often wear at home under the apron. He doesn’t say it, but mom always looks the best like this, when her eyes aren’t dull under all that makeup and without the fancy high heels she often grills her feet on to match with Dad’s business suits.

“It’s not like you’ve talked about him a dozen times whenever we’re on the phone or anything,” she says, scoping the mahou tofu out and into the plate.

“I do?” _He does?_ Did. He can’t remember and it burns so deep inside.

Mom stops, and finally turns to look at him now. There’s a forlorn look in her eyes, something he doesn’t see often, and he has to swallow back the lump in his throat to stare back. 

“It’s okay,” she says eventually, and elbows him by the waist as she walks back into the kitchen.

“He’s a sweet kid. He’d understand it, Injun-ah.”

Jaemin would. And he’s not sure if that makes this predicament better, or worse for the both of them.  
.  
.  
.

Here’s what Jaemin remembers.

It was a Friday, and Renjun decided to stay back a little later than normal at school to practice his singing for K-Arts’ audition. Jaemin would have no doubt stayed, but mom said Mrs. Choi’s little Hyuna needed her babysitter, and he hurriedly left the campus at 6pm, Renjun’s tiny frame in the music hall burnt into his mind. 

He Facetime-audio called Renjun when the Chinese was on his way home, and the sound of Renjun’s sweet laughter getting cut short as he heard car tires screeching on the street haunted every corner of his mind every night.

Here’s what he remembers. Warm blood coating at his hands as Renjun’s huddled tightly in his arms, unconscious and face almost unrecognizable with all the red on his limp body. Old tears and cakey dried blood all over his white shirt when he looked up and saw a frantic, distraught woman running into the ER.

He stares. She glares. It takes a moment before everything sinks down on both of them, and – 

“My son…Where’s my son?”

 _So this is where Renjun gets his Korean accent from_ , Jaemin remembers thinking, and tells her everything.

“He’s all I have left.”

She’s said, and Jaemin realizes he understands that, too.

They don’t talk again until Renjun miraculously woke up from his coma two months later. But when he leaves the hospital that day, lost a piece of himself in those dazed, forgetful eyes, she’s followed after him all the way to the exit.

“Thank you.” She’s said. And then, “But it’s up to him now, not us.”

There’s what Jaemin remembers, but Renjun may never will.  
.  
.  
.

_I can’t sleep._

Jaemin stares at the words on his phone screen, and stares at them some more – the only thing that he’s been doing for the past five minutes. It’s been two months and after everything that’s happened the first message Renjun sends him is about his lack of naps. He’s debating whether to fling his phone out of the window or text Donghyuck for advice, but then Donghyuck will just say stupid shit that’ll push him to do stupid-er shit, and he still needs his phone to live, so he’s gonna have to response to this, and soon.

There’s another thing that he remembers, and it’s going to break his heart, or magically piece it back. 

Either way, it’s already broken, Jaemin realizes, and solemnly sends back his reply.  
.  
.  
.

“This is beautiful.”

Renjun murmurs, staring out into the wide expanse of Seoul, bright stars dotted on the black canvas of night. They’re on the rooftop of his place. Technically, the entire building is Mrs. Shin’s, and he’s only renting the second floor. But Jaemin’s somehow managed to snag over the fence and open it for them to come out here.

The Korean boy’s laying on the old, ratty couch Mrs. Shin’s thrown up here, arms behind his head and bangs flopping over his eyes. Renjun can tell, from the ease in the way he moves and the comfortable curve of his shoulders, it’s not the first time they’ve been up here.

He tells the boy so, and Jaemin peeks through his hair to look at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s our favorite spot.” He adds. 

It is? Was. Renjun can’t remember and it still burns.

“I’m sorry,” he replies.

For a moment, Jaemin only looks at him. There’s a depth in his gaze Renjun’s never seen before, and it grips around his heart like a vice. 

“Don’t,” Jaemin finally says, and looks away. “Don’t ever be.”

They don’t talk anymore, until even Renjun feels his eyelids getting heavier. Jaemin’s already softly breathing when he lays down next to him, long, dark eyelashes brushing his smooth skin at every rise and fall of his chest. He’s so beautiful like this, Renjun realizes, at peace and so serene under the orange – yellow lights of the night lamps in the dark of the night. His sketches make so much more sense now, even if they won’t ever do Jaemin justice. 

_I don’t ever want to hurt you._  
He wants to say, but realizes he’s used to say the exact same thing before, so he doesn’t.

Jaemin wakes up at 4am on a Friday morning, Renjun’s sleeping on his side and facing him, soft puffs of breaths fanning at his bare neck, and feels the sunlight sink so deep inside the pieces might burn. 

(tbc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at me trying to write longer chaps to squeeze in for a total 7.  
> let's be honest tho we need more angst before this can end. i'll try not to go past 11. maybe. hopefully.
> 
> thanks a lot for sticking with this <3
> 
> tt @godnjm


	6. Chapter 6

.  
.  
.  
On Saturday, Jaemin falls in love with Renjun.

His parents are out of town to attend their high school reunion, which is sweet, and even sweeter because he’s finally home alone on a weekend. There’s still homework to do and half a page of Chem report to write, but neither is serious enough to stop him from shoving a hoodie over his head and walking over to Renjun’s house, where he knows the Chinese boy will be at. 

He came just in time to see Renjun skipping down the stairs and holding his house keys, swaddled in a military green jacket. He turns when he hears footsteps coming near, and grins at Jaemin under his baseball cap.

“Groceries?” Jaemin asks, approaching the guy.

“Nah,” Renjun jiggles his keys, and only then did he see the bagpack on the Chinese’ shoulders. 

“School. I wanna practice my singing more.”

  


So the music hall then, where he’s already there five days a week. Jaemin grins. “I’ll join you.”

Renjun gives him a look, eyebrows raised, but doesn’t protest when Jaemin falls into step next to him.

“What happened to homework?” 

“What happened to ‘I just wanna hang out with you’?”

The older boy only rolls his eyes and elbows him, too used to his cheeky ass, but the closed mouthed smile on his lips is warm. Fond. Jaemin thinks about it a lot. 

“Alright. How about…you need a piano player?”

“I can play the piano too you know.”

“But I’m better.”

“Can’t say the same thing about your flirting.”

 _That’s new_ , Jaemin thinks, stopping dead on his tracks in surprise. Renjun sniffs, not looking at him, but Jaemin doesn’t let it pass.

“You think I’m flirting?”

“Aren’t you?” 

Renjun says, after a pause, looking forward. His eyes are hidden under the cap, and Jaemin wants to flick it off his head.

 _Yeah_ , he wants to say.

“Maybe.” 

– is what comes out, and he watches as the word turns to smoke in the chilly air.  
.  
.  
.

“We are never showing anyone this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We just started. Nothing’s gonna be perfect at first try.”

“It should be if it’s for auditioning for K-Arts.”

Jaemin sighs, smoothing out the note sheet with the pads of his fingers. They’ve got half the page scribbled out, and Renjun’s playing out the tunes, a frown between his eyebrows as he takes it in. Jaemin stands and watches him.

It goes like this. Soft, slow like a tinkle on his skin, before sweeping in like a spectrum of tonal colors, and it articulates the note in a resonating way, nestled warmly in his ears until Renjun’s hands stop midway.

“We need more, Jaemin-ah.”

He says, pulling his hands back from the keyboard as if burned, reaching for his pen and paper.

Jaemin nods, looking down at his own sheet. This is important for all of them, but he knows why Renjun’s extra stressed out. The older doesn’t say it, but he hears him talking with his family on the phone sometimes when he drops by, and he can pick up the pieces here and there. His student visa. Mr. Huang’s planning his earlier-than-expected retirement.

The notes dance in front of his eyes, and Jaemin tries to will them into place. Renjun’s right. It’s too soft, too mellow. He can play stronger tunes. Renjun can no doubt hit lower notes too.

Jaemin blinks, there it is, and scrambles for his pencil to scratch out on the sheet.

“Did you get s – Hey,”

Renjun looks up, just in time to be shoved to the side as Jaemin squeezes himself next to him on the chair. 

“I got it.”

Jaemin exclaims, ignoring the pouty glare he’s getting as he spreads out his note sheet over Renjun’s on the holder. 

“See this part?” he says, pointing on the paper with the eraser butt of his pencil. “Let’s go lower. Try it.”

Renjun frowns at the spot he’s jammed at on the sheet, fingers hovering over the white keyboards. He turns to give him a doubtful look, face and eyes a lot closer than before, Jaemin suddenly realizes. He can count the hair strands brushing Renjun’s eyebrows from here, or the pointy slit of his eye, the small round tip of his nose. He doesn’t let his eyes trail lower.

Renjun doesn’t reply, and stares down at the keyboard instead. He picks at the Do first, hesitantly, before bringing his fingers to hit the others like how Jaemin’s sketched out on the sheet.

The melody goes again, the hammers and strings hitting a little more this time. Jaemin can feel their thrum in his ears, but Renjun’s still too light.

“Here,”

He murmurs, more mindful of how the tune’s going, but his hand’s already acted before his brain, and before he knows it he’s holding Renjun’s hand over the ‘Do’. 

Jaemin blinks, and stares, almost wheels back himself. But then there’s a hitch in Renjun’s breath that if he were any farther he would have missed, but he’s not, and the soft sound makes his heart leap into his throat.

He doesn’t know where the boldness comes from, fleshed out in his bones and overflowing out of his skin, but Renjun – _Renjun_ doesn’t pull away. His hand simply stays hovering there, warm and soft under Jaemin’s burning palm, as if waiting, and Jaemin gravely takes his chance, and presses their fingers down together. 

There it is. The ‘Do’ that he wants, as he softly guides their hands over the keynotes – floating in a harmonic mixture of chords . The sound flows out so much richer and sweeter than before, even if Jaemin’s not sure if it comes from the piano or the raging thrums in his heart, the tips of his fingers burn through the rhythm. 

“Oh,”

Renjun finally says, more like an exhale, more like a breath, and for Jaemin, more like a realization. He slips his hand back into his lap and swallows.

“So?”

It takes a moment, it hangs in the air and rips into his heart, but then Renjun picks up the sheet, smooths his fingers over the notes and looks up at him. His eyes the clearest and most beautiful thing Jaemin’s ever gazed into.

“It’s perfect.”

It goes like this. When Renjun smiles at him it feels like every breath is sucked out of his lungs, when Renjun’s wry fingers brush his as he writes down their names his heart feels like it’s going to wring out of his chest. And when Jaemin stares after Renjun, palms burning hot on the piano keyboards, Jaemin knows that he’s in love. 

.  
.  
.

Jaemin returns home at six o’clock in the morning and quietly slips back into his room before his parents can wake up. He’s shivering in his thin flannel tee, skin icy from the cold air outside as he slides back under the covers.

There’s the paper on his desk, and he blinks at it in surprise when it comes to view. He must have pulled it out from the cupboard last night, too caught up in his own thoughts to even realize he was doing it. The paper isn’t old, but definitely well-used, all crumpled at the edges and folding lines mussing up the inked notes. 

“You can have it.” He remembers Renjun saying.

“You don’t want it?”

“Nah it’s cool,” Renjun smiles, bangs flopped flat over his eyes as he grins up at him. “I already memorized it.”

“How?”

The older pauses a little at that, eyes shadowed under the baseball cap. 

“Because you showed it to me.”

Renjun’s finally said, beautiful gleams in his eyes before he turns away and waves him goodbye, and Jaemin’s memorized that day too. When the note sheet is neatly folded in his palm inside his pocket, the breaths he’s taking turning to wisps in the snowy air, and the melody of their song sings in his ears.  
.  
.  
.

On Saturday, Renjun tears down his own room.

When he woke up in the morning, alone on the rooftop couch and draped around a denim jacket that still smells the tiniest hint of coffee, something is aching in his chest. Something that burns in his lungs and burrows in his veins, the space next to him still faintly holds a warm indent when he staggers off the couch and stumbles downstairs back to his room.

The holes are still there, carved and ridged out inside him. But if Donghyuck’s right (and he must be, Renjun can see it in his eyes), then there’s a song, a melody somewhere, that might fill them in.

(tbc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's 3:30am and pouring rain here - matches the mood doesn't it ;))
> 
> thanks a lot for all the kudos, following and comments <3


	7. Chapter 7

.  
.  
.  
Jaemin likes to think he’s smooth.

He likes to think his eyes don’t always trail after Renjun no matter where they’re at, likes to think his heart doesn’t do a backflip whenever Renjun catches him doing it, and certainly, he likes to think he did _not_ just choke on his coffee and most graciously snort the bitter liquid up his nose when Renjun casually drops a bomb at lunchtime.

“You didn’t tell me we made a song together.”

“I didn’t?” he wheezes, reaching for the tissue Jisung offers in solemn gratefully, and coughs some more because holy shitake the coffee _burns_. There’s a hand patting comfortingly at his back, and he’s pretty sure it’s Renjun, and it’s a bit like trying to ease the salt he’s already rubbed into the wound. It’s not very helping.

“ – must have slipped my mind.”

He finally croaks out, caffeine up his nose and heart up his throat.

The blond doesn’t response to that, instead just looks at him. He’s been doing that a lot lately, Jaemin realizes. Even when Jeno’s been continuously confirming that yes, there is absolutely nothing stuck on his pretty face, judging by the stares getting thrown at him on a daily basis like this, he’s doubtful. 

“Well,” Renjun continues, and shrugs. “Donghyuck says it’s good, but y’know, I don’t remember, so I want to hear it again.”

“Oh, Donghyuck says so huh,” 

He says, giving the addressed Donghyuck a look burns hot enough to match his nickname, although the sunny boy merely shrugs, mouthing something that looks like _he’s gonna find out either way_. Jaemin’s subtle reply is a lot less nice, but he leaves it for now to turn back to Renjun.

“The note sheet’s at my home, but I’m not sure where I put it,” Lies. He takes it with him everywhere he goes, like some kind of reversed good luck charm. He refuses to think of what the luck is for. “I’ll show you when I find it.”

Renjun frowns at that, and if Jaemin squints hard enough there’s like a hint of disappointment in his gaze and the way his bleached eyebrows droop down and he can _still feel Renjun’s goddamn hand on his back._

“Alright, but tell me soon then.”

Renjun finally says, drops his hand, and turns back to his food before Chenle can take advantage of his distracted state and steal another curry bun, of which he whacks the boy’s hand away nonchalantly. They immediately launch into another argument in fast Chinese that the rest of the boys all but ignore, too used to even bother catching what they’re saying. Jaemin looks down at his food in resignation, appetite lost to the wind and stupid feelings stuck down his throat, the spot Renjun’s palm touched searing heat through his jacket.

Donghyuck nudges him from the side, and Jaemin turns to the boy to see another pack of tissues and an iced coffee bottle on his hand. He accepts with a sigh, but not without giving the boy an elbow to the ribs. Donghyuck simply mouths a silent oww, but the smile on his lips is bright and understanding, and Jaemin refuses to think of what that’s for too.

.  
.  
.  
The thing about memory loss, is that you start noticing things more.

Like before Donghyuck sings, he warms up his voice until there’s veins popping out on his neck, or how Mark-hyung’s eyes always lit up whenever someone mentions rap, how funny Jeno is when he tries not to be, or how sometimes when they argue Jisung uses the Chinese slangs he picks up online to annoy Chenle even more. 

Or how after a dance class, Jaemin’s pink bangs are plastered to his forehead, long thin neck glinting with sweat and dark eyes a misty hazard, and he’s so boyishly beautiful that Renjun finds himself left standing star-struck behind the glass door of Prof. Park’s dance classroom when he was passing by, the steady, fast thumps of his heart humming clearer than ever. 

He doesn’t remember these feelings, but maybe, just maybe, some things don’t change. 

.  
.  
.  
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Mom, for the tenth time,” Renjun sighs, as he rolls the suitcase off the car and slings her LV handbag over one shoulder, ignoring her insistent chiding.

“I may not remember everything, but if I’ve managed for three years, I sure as hell can manage now.”

“Language!”

“Besides,” he shrugs and passes her the bag, pushing the carry-on forward as they enter the terminal gate. “It’ll be fun going through it again. Learning to do everything by myself and all.” Not like he hasn’t been doing that since the couple of boarding schools he’s been sent to.

Mom seems to have caught the thought too, because the look she sends him is full of forlorn regret, but he doesn’t let her dwell on it. 

“It’s time.”

Dad finally says, prime and pristine in another suit. Judging by the screen light on his iPhone and the wrinkle between his eyebrows there’s another business meeting to tend to after this flight. Renjun only nods, not meeting the man’s eyes as he passes mom her carry-on, where she stores her flip-flops to change into once on board. She never says a word, but he knows how much she loathes stringing on these heels. 

“Tell me when you land,” he says, and smiles gently. 

Mom sighs, and reaches out to run her hand through his hair, and he knows she hates this too. The blond locks he’s managed to bleach himself. It’s too loud, too defiant for their family, and he knows that’s exactly what he was aiming for, even if he doesn’t remember it.

“I’ll miss you,” she murmurs, eyes wet even if he knows she won’t cry, and this he can stare into. “So much.”

And he notices this too. How the fridge back at his apartment is now full of homecooked food to last him a couple of days, how the floor of his room is clean and there’s extra snacks put inside his cupboard, and he allows himself to hold the hand on his head and rub soothing circles to it.

“I will too,” he smiles at her. A real, genuine one after such a long while. And the earnest swell in mom’s eyes is more than enough. “Safe flight.”

.  
.  
.  
_Come on over. I have something to show you._

Jaemin stares up at the ceiling of his room, freshly showered and a storm brewing in his mind. The phone rested on his chest lights up the text sent to him two minutes ago, and the buzz passes all the way through his skin and hitches its way into his heart. 

This is too much sometimes, no, it’s too much almost all the time. Everything that’s happening now feels so much like a broken record, playing a tune he’s all too familiar with, a tune he’s all but loved for the longest while.

He still does, and that’s probably why he can never say no to the name that comes with these messages. 

.  
.  
.  
The walk to Renjun’s apartment isn’t long, but it’s starting to get cold enough that he can feel the chilly bite at his nose as he hauls himself up the staircase, skipping two steps at once like he always does. He raps his knuckles against the creaking door of second floor, but the reply he gets comes from above.

Renjun’s blond hair is impossibly bright against the night sky above, and Jaemin finds himself squinting his eyes up as the Chinese waves his hand and mouths at him to come up.

He must have managed to figure out how to hurdle through the fence from watching him that day before – the smartass that he always is, memory loss or not, and Jaemin allows himself a fond smirk as he hops up the rooftop too 

– and the scene in front of him makes the smile slide off his face.

“Tada~”

Renjun announces, standing in the middle of a strings of lights looped between the plants and purple flowers stems crawled up the walls on either side, the wide and twinkling expanse of Seoul spread out behind him. 

“Well?” he says, head tilts in wait of a response, and the spark in his eyes is so pretty Jaemin thinks his chest might burst if it hasn’t already at this view.

“You – ” he stutters, heart rabitting. “You did this? All of it?”

Renjun’s answer is a smile – all teeth and curved mouth, bundled up in another oversized hoodie as he swipes his hand over the entire surroundings. 

“Had a lot of free time today. I thought you might like this.”

He says, phone clasped in his hand as he jumps down and plops onto the couch, and only then did Jaemin notice the two steaming mugs sitting on the table next to it, a tiny square tag hanging out of one of them that Renjun reaches for.

“You need an invite or what?”

He blinks out of his daze, and turns to the boy. Renjun’s frame is hidden under the shadow of all the lights, but Jaemin can still see his eyes – so clear and bright and cheeks flushing prettily from the crisp autumn air. His stomach swoops pleasantly, and it has to take swallowing his heart back inside to move his feet forward. 

The scent of coffee and jasmine tea wafts through the air as they sit and watch the bustles of life flowing around them, their arms pressing against each other. Renjun’s forever a steady warmth on his skin, and Jaemin thinks maybe he can be happy like this too, at least for now. 

(tbc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's too long i'm sorry i'm gonna have to split it. 
> 
> for @dreamwinko bc she would have killed me if i updated this any later :D
> 
>  
> 
> thanks a lot for being patient and sticking with this <3  
> ~changed my tt @seijaem~


	8. Chapter 8

.  
.  
.  
“My parents left today.”

Jaemin blinks, a bit sluggish, and lets Renjun’s words sink in. The scent of coffee is hefty in his nose.

“You miss them?”

“I – I don’t know.” 

Renjun finally says, nibbling at the mouth of his tea mug, the liquid already cooled at the chilly air. There’s a hard line between his eyebrows, and Jaemin can feel his hand itching to swipe it off. He holds his mug tighter instead.

“I know, it’s such a shit answer. How can I not miss my own family? But it’s like…”

And he pauses, the line crinkles harder, the thoughts in his mind swirling slowly but nothing makes enough sense to twist them into words. The tea bag’s tag blows gently in the wind, and he twirls the little thin thread around his finger, curls around it like an anchor. 

“You know what it feels like to be lost everyday?” he asks.

Yes, Jaemin thinks, but it’s not the same kind of loss Renjun means, and he has no right to compare. 

He turns away then, and the night sky stares down at him in judgement. Sometimes he thinks he can do this, and other times he just wants to throw himself in a ditch and bury these feelings away. It hurts in the gentlest ways, in the distance between their hands, in how Renjun’s head always leans to his direction, yet he never finds the courage to bridge it. The holes in their old memories too wide to close. 

“You know, there’s this thing you used to tell me.”

Renjun turns to him again. There’s no reply, but the soft curiosity in his eyes is enough. Jaemin swallows and looks up instead.

“The sky is our limit, because we never experience anything twice.”

“Are you saying I’m never getting my memories back?”

“I’m saying,” he says, and curls tighter around himself, “that maybe it’s time to let go and start anew.”  
.  
.  
.  
Jaemin falls asleep around 2am, but Renjun’s still wide awake.

The younger boy is spread out next to him on the couch, an arm slung across his closed eyes. The blanket is splayed uselessly around his waist, and Renjun stares at it in contemplation, brain racking up a storm inside his head.

He doesn’t understand. Jaemin is so hard to read, so hard to touch. He’s wounded, but Renjun does not know where, cannot know where unless the boy tells him himself – which he won't. The silent remorse bleeds all over whenever Renjun sees him, and he knows somehow it’s because of him, by him, _for_ him. He supposes he should have expected it. He’s seen that regret in so many people’s eyes when they realize what happened to him. Jaemin’s shouldn’t be anymore special, but it does.

Maybe it’s the look in Jaemin’s impossibly dark eyes when they stare up the sky, maybe it’s the way Jaemin holds himself when he tells him to let go. 

Maybe it’s something inside him instead, that’s fractured, rough edges that scrape against his chest whenever he looks at Jaemin.

Maybe that’s why, when he reaches out to pull up the blanket, and sees the white corner of a piece of paper peeking out from Jaemin’s pocket, his hand acts before he does.  
.  
.  
.  
Three months ago, their song would have been completed.

Three months ago, Jaemin could have showed Renjun how he really felt.

They made a little promise, on that Saturday. They’d write their own lyrics, and they’d show each other after the audition. Jaemin’s finished his that night.

It wasn’t hard. Mark used to tell him lyrics are feelings poured into words, and he never realized how true it was until that day, when all he could ever see is Renjun. Renjun’s dark eyes. Renjun’s warm skin. Renjun’s soft smile when their gazes meet. _Renjun._

The pen shakes between his fingers, but by midnight the page is pale and well-written on. He had hoped they could do what his mouth couldn’t. 

.  
.  
.  
In a fair, ideal world, Jaemin would have said everything.

But it’s not the same now. Not when he creaks his eyes open to the morning light and Renjun holding the note sheet in his hands welcomes his view. He bolts up like a spring.

His mouth opens, but the words wouldn’t come out, like they always fail to do, even though he doesn’t have to anymore, because the ones on the paper are already speaking on his behalf.

“Injun-a…”

“It’s beautiful,” 

Renjun finally says, cutting him off halfway. Jaemin immediately clamps his mouth shut. He stays rooted, heart hammering in his chest, and watches with bated breaths as Renjun trails his fingers delicately over the page, as if playing out invisible notes on the scribbled lyrics.

“I don’t remember this…”

He murmurs, but with so much more clarity than he realizes, and it is. The pad of his thumb swipes over the words, and they dance along the tune he’s drawing out. _Leaning on my shoulder, your scent is in my heart and soul. Being next to you, I was full of love. But I could not say it out, so I missed you._

_Did you see?_

“But you do, don’t you?”

Jaemin stills, lips parting, but no sounds come out. But Renjun – _Renjun_ knows, like he always does. Renjun, who takes up the whole room with his strength and grit, who fills him with these words and sounds – who’s reaching for his shaking hand and gripping it in his warm, soft palm. 

“Tell me honestly, Jaemin-ah.” He tells him.

For a while, they stay there in silence, and as the seconds tick by, Jaemin begins to realize the weight of this moment. Renjun’s still sitting there looking at him, hand in his, so sincere and confused, and Jaemin feels breathless. He's not sure if it's because Renjun’s words are tipping his world on end (how does he keep doing that?) or because his heart is breaking (why did he have to forget?). It's a feeling halfway between hope and heartache.

And there it is.

It’s just them, under the cheap dimming lights Renjun’s strung up for him – for _them_. And it hits like a wave, of a time long past before this, when they were here, right on this rooftop, when Renjun knocks him in the arm and laughs brighter than the sun, their white uniform shirts plastered to their backs in the burning heat of May’s graduation day – so star-struck to all the impractical wants and the world at their teenage feet. He looks at Renjun and he embodies all those things, and their song hums fondly in his mind. 

Sucking in a breath, Jaemin finally moves, places his forehead against Renjun’s, and waits. The Chinese makes no move to push him away, and Jaemin could have sworn he feels his hand getting tugged closer. The warmth seeps in between them like an exhale. Renjun gazes up at him, eyes impossibly dark under thin lashes, but it’s the tenderness in his eyes that makes Jaemin’s stomach suddenly feel weightless. Renjun untangles their hands to reach up, a feathery touch on his cheek, and Jaemin takes his leap of faith and kisses him.

It goes like this. Soft, light, just the barest pressure against his lips – so stupidly chapped against Renjun’s much softer ones. But his heart shoots up nonetheless and he finds himself pressing just a little more to the burn between them, sighing pleasantly when Renjun replies just as easily.

When he finally pulls away, both their faces are tinted pink, the tiniest hint of tea lingers on his lips, and the look in Renjun’s gaze when he opens his eyes the most heart-stopping thing Jaemin’s ever seen.

“There,” he tells him, then, “that’s what you missed.”

(tbc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i sure as hell love tea too ;)
> 
> for my sister, and what she told me today <3
> 
> thanks so much for sticking with me and this piece.
> 
> changed my tt name @seijaem


End file.
